


shake the glitter off your clothes now

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, But Mostly Humor, F/M, Female Obi-Wan Kenobi, Humor, Porn, undercover as a stripper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 09:37:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16238972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: Anakin's undercover but he's not under much.





	shake the glitter off your clothes now

**Author's Note:**

> AU where Obi-Wan is a lady (I personally picture Anna Torv, but ymmv). Title from Katy Perry, summary paraphrased from the BTVS episode "Go Fish." 
> 
> Listen, there is a whole list of people I blame for this *cough*Snacky*cough*Silveronthetree*cough*, as well as that hilarious manip of [**Obi-Wan throwing money at Anakin**](http://cacchieressa.tumblr.com/post/163012028656/forcearama-earthboundjedi-nerdy-tom-boy), but mostly I blame the glitter. 
> 
> Thanks to Snacky for looking it over. <3

"Are you sure about this?" Anakin asks, squinting up at the sign suspiciously. 

"Three separate sources corroborated the tip," Obi-Wan replies. "This is the place." 

They're undercover in civilian clothes, and while it's always weird to see her in something other than her Jedi robes, it's especially weird to see her dressed in a bikini top and wrap skirt. Weird and hot. And if this mission goes according to her plan, he'll be seeing her in even less. That thought makes his stomach clench in something that could be either fear or desire, or more likely, an unholy combination of the two. Either way, she's not going to be pleased if she figures out what he's feeling.

"But we can come up with a different plan." He chews on his cuticle for a moment. "Let me go in and get a job first. Then maybe you won't have to—" He waves a hand. "You know."

Obi-Wan raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You?"

"I can bus tables or pour drinks," he says, offended. "It's more likely they'll hire me than you." As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he wants to take them back.

Obi-Wan is more amused than upset at his oblique insult to her womanly charms. Which are _very_ charming, he thinks, surreptitiously eyeing her up again. The freckles on the bridge of her nose are already multiplying under Sesid's bright tropical sun. "I assure you, Anakin, I'm fully capable of performing this task." She cocks a hip and trails a hand down the line of her throat, and Anakin makes a strangled noise, proving her point.

"But you shouldn't have to," he says. "I know what kind of sleemos frequent these places." He gestures up at the neon sign, which is blinking garishly even in the bright afternoon sunlight. "Vacuum jockeys are all the same." Except for him, of course. But he lets that go unsaid. "Let me—"

She laughs softly. "Fine. If you think you can be in position to take the handoff, I won't stop you."

Anakin very definitely does not think about _positions_ she might end up in working at a joint like this. He also doesn't think about how disastrous his stints undercover have occasionally turned out to be. "I can do this," he says. And then maybe they can get back to the front, where they belong. He unhooks his lightsaber from his belt and presses it into her hands. "Hold this for me, okay?"

She curls her fingers around it automatically, her eyes widening slightly—he's surprised her, and in a good way—before her expression turns pleasantly bland again. She slips his saber under her skirt; she's got her own holstered under there, and he hasn't stopped thinking about it since she showed him her thigh holster with a wickedly delighted flick of her skirt before they left the hotel and gave him a whole new category of fantasies with which to torment himself. He'd helped pick out her wardrobe for the mission—he'd learned a few things in the time he spent with Padme—and he's been regretting it ever since. He knows how to deal with her—with his feelings for her—when she's in her Jedi robes and inhabiting her role as a serene Jedi master. This woman who is wearing clothes he chose for her, and apparently enjoying them, is a little more than he can bear. 

She waves a hand. "Off you go then. Meet me back at the hotel when you've got the job." She saunters off, drawing every eye on the street with the way her hips move, skirt swaying seductively. Anakin scowls and heads into the club.

*

It's almost too easy to get the job. Anakin doesn't even have to mind-trick the manager—which is good, because he knows from experience Toydarians aren't susceptible to it—who gives him an uncomfortably lingering once-over before he's hustled into a backroom and handed a bundle of clothing. They don't even discuss payment.

"First shift starts at 1900. If you're any good, you'll go on again at 2100," the manager says and flits away before Anakin can ask any questions.

"Wait, what?" he manages, taking in the fact that he's standing in what is basically a dimly lit locker room with five other naked males of various species and not in the kitchen where he'd expected to have to bus tubs of used glasses. 

A well-muscled Nautolan gives him a wide grin that reminds him of Kit Fisto, and says, "My stage name is Aurum, but you can call me Vanosh. Welcome to The Cockpit. "

"Thanks," Anakin says faintly, and fumbles for his comm unit.

*

"The strippers are all male," Anakin whisper-shouts into his comm once he's alone in the fresher.

"Yes, you've said that several times," Obi-Wan replies, and Anakin can _feel_ her amusement. His mouth twitches, automatically wanting to smile in response, but since her amusement is at his expense, he doesn't. "I'll be sure to get a front row table for the show. It would be in character for my cover persona."

"No!" Anakin tries and fails to keep his voice low. "You don't—That's totally unnecessary."

"I don't want to miss anything. Especially if you're," she coughs delicately, "otherwise occupied."

"I'm not—I won't be distracted."

"Of course not. Now go and do the job in front of you and don't worry about anything else."

"Yes, Master," he replies automatically despite having been a knight with his own padawan for almost a year now. He scrunches his face up in annoyance, but Obi-Wan has already signed off.

He doesn't have much time to brood, though. He's only got about half an hour to get himself ready for the show. 

*

Anakin has faced down battle droids and pirates and Sith Lords, but all that courage flees when he unravels the pile of clothing the manager had thrust at him and discovers that stuffed into the pocket of this cheap and shiny version of Jedi robes—which tear away at the seams, and his mind shies away from that horror for the moment—is a shiny, bronze-colored undergarment of some sort. He flushes painfully when he figures it out. The elastic bits that fit over his hips are studded with rhinestones.

Obi-Wan is never going to let him live this down. He's grateful once again that Ahsoka had to stay behind at the Temple to finish exams, because he'd never be able to look her in the eye again if she ever saw him in this getup.

Maybe he can get the handoff before the first show even starts.

He starts with the two humans, one in a shiny facsimile of a pilot's flight suit and the other dressed as a pirate, then the Twi'lek, who twitches his lekku dismissively before going back to painting designs on them, and then the Togruta, who just looks at him like he's a few circuits short in the processor and walks away without responding. Finally, he approaches Vanosh, who is dusting himself all over with sparkly powder. 

"It never rains on Coruscant in summer," he murmurs portentously.

"No?" Vanosh replies, his tentacles waving sinuously. "That's a shame. I've never been, but I hear it's something else."

That is not the reply he's looking for, but it's better than the pitying looks the others gave him. Before he can awkwardly remove himself from the conversation, Vanosh says, "Will you need help with your makeup?"

"Makeup?" he asks, his stomach sinking. It had been one thing to let Padme paint his face, during their week-long idyll at Varykino, before she'd woken up to the reality of what a secret marriage to a Jedi would mean and broken off the relationship. It was another thing completely to let a stranger close enough to do it, and in the process make him look ridiculous. He'd have let Obi-Wan do it, of course, and maybe even Ahsoka, but no one else.

"A little glitter, at least," Vanosh says, shaking the powder puff at him and sprinkling him with sparkly dust.

"Okay," says Anakin, resigned to his fate now. He knows that stuff will never come out of his clothes or his hair, so he might as well just go with it. It will make Obi-Wan laugh, anyway.

*

After they're done with his eyes and his lips, Vanosh offers to oil him up, but Anakin insists he can do that part on his own. "No, really, I've got it," he says and hurries into the fresher as Vanosh calls out, "At least let me do your back," just as the door slams shut.

In the mirror, his face is…something else. He's always known he's attractive—had more than once bristled at hearing himself called Obi-Wan's pretty boy behind his back—but lined in black, his eyes now are startlingly blue, and his lips are much pinker than usual, and for a moment he lets himself imagine that instead of laughing, Obi-Wan will finally be attracted to him the way he's always been to her, that she'll lick the lipstick off his lips and tangle her hands in his tousled hair as she draws him down into a heated kiss.

His body responds immediately to the old fantasy (now with added makeup) and he makes himself breathe through it, because the last thing he wants to do is go onstage and strip with an obvious hard-on.

And the thought of getting onstage is enough to kill his mood, because he might be graceful on the battlefield or in the dojo, but he's as fumble-footed as a falumpaset on the dance floor. He's pretty sure Obi-Wan's toes never did recover from the handful of dance lessons she'd foisted on him when he was a teenager.

But maybe she's got some advice for him now. He comms her—voice only, because he's not ready for anyone, even her, to see him like this yet—and says, "None of the dancers responded to the pass phrase."

"The Force will guide us, Anakin."

"Will it guide me onstage?" he asks skeptically. "I need to put on a show and, well, you've seen me dance."

"It's all in the hips," she says, and he can't help but think of the way she'd walked away earlier, hips swaying seductively.

"I don't think my hips do that," he confesses.

"You have to move like a dianoga. Pretend you're doing saber forms and you'll be fine. I'll see you soon." She cuts the call before he can respond.

"Saber forms," he mutters. "Unbelievable." He sways his hips experimentally and then groans. This is terrible. Everything is terrible. 

At least the oil they gave him smells nice.

*

When he exits the fresher, gleaming like Threepio fresh from an oil bath, Vanosh is waiting with his powder puff full of glitter again. 

"Oh my," he says, "you do clean up nice." He shakes the puff in Anakin's direction. "Now let's make you sparkle."

"Sure," Anakin says, trying not to fiddle with the rhinestone-studded g-string he's wearing. "Why not."

"That's the spirit." Vanosh dusts him all over until he shimmers under the lights. "Now, these are all chip readers." He flicks a rhinestone on Anakin's left hip. "The patrons will all cop a feel when they tip you, and the readers make sure the credits get funneled into your account. Tuula should have that set up for you by the time you go on." 

Anakin nods, even though he never gave the manager anything more than a fake name and the promise of hard work. It's not like he needs the money, but then again, he could always buy things to trick out the _Twilight_ when the Temple quartermaster denies his requests for new parts. 

Vanosh is still talking. "And make sure they pay before you give anyone a private dance."

Anakin swallows hard. "Private dance?"

"Sure. There are rooms all along the back of the club for that. But do not have sex in them. We're not licensed for that and if you get caught, Tuula will fire you. And you might end up like Jax, the last guy who wore the Jedi costume."

"Yeah? What happened to him?"

"He caught the clap from a client _and_ Tuula fired him." Vanosh squeezes his shoulder encouragingly. "Don't worry. We had the costume cleaned."

Anakin pulls on the cheap set of robes, made of shiny polyester. "Isn't this disrespectful? I mean, the Jedi—"

"There hasn't been a Jedi on Sesid in a hundred years," Vanosh scoffs. "This is a neutral planet. All we give to the galaxy is a little sex and a lot of relaxation, and nobody wants to lose that by bombing us." 

Anakin hums noncommittally and fiddles with the clasps on his gauntlet. He'd found a glove for his left arm among all the clothing strewn around the room, this one made of knock-off Pantora-silk. He figures it'll stand out less if he's got two gloves on, at least to start.

He's trying not to think about how little he's going to end up wearing by the end of his routine. At least in this costume, he can follow Obi-Wan's advice and do saber forms if he can't figure out how shake his hips like a cantina girl.

It's not the nudity that bothers him so much as the sensation of being treated like a thing instead of a person. Of being on offer to the highest bidder. He remembers what that feels like and never wants to feel it again. Despite what Obi-Wan might think, Anakin knows what goes on in places like this, and he's still thankful that neither he nor his mother ever had to work in one while they were on Tatooine.

It's kind of ironic that he's in the situation now, for a mission, but at least he can walk away when they're done. He comforts himself with that thought and resolves to let the Force guide him once he's actually on stage. 

*

Anakin watches from backstage as the first two dancers perform. The guy in the flight suit goes first. The music is terrible—a Hutt slow jam that was popular before the war—and Anakin slips off to ask the deejay for a something a little more current and a lot faster. 

"What do you want?" the Rodian in the deejay booth asks, slipping his headphones off.

"I'm new and I need something that's—" He waves a hand. "Not this." The Rodian looks offended but Anakin plows on doggedly. "What's available?" The Rodian presses a datapad into his hands and he scrolls through it, hoping to find something decent on the playlist. He's three quarters of the way through the list when the guy in the flight suit is replaced by the guy in the pirate outfit and the music changes to something with a lot of feminine shrieking in it. It makes the hair on the back of Anakin's neck stand up and he wonders when the Nightsisters started a band. He's starting to despair that he'll ever find the right song when he scrolls right past it on the list. "Here," he tells the deejay, who looks deeply unimpressed. "Shut up," Anakin says, though the Rodian hasn't said a word. "It's got a good beat and you can dance to it."

"Whatever you want, pal," the Rodian says with a shrug as he pulls his headphones back on. "Now get the hell out of my booth."

Anakin hustles down to the backstage area, trying not to feel anxious when he sees that the tables for the audience have begun to fill up.

"You're up next, new guy," Tuula says before fluttering away to deal with a crisis at the bar.

"Yeah," Anakin mutters. "I know."

*

Anakin feels it the moment Obi-Wan arrives at the club. He's always aware of her in the back of his mind, the Force warm and calm in her presence, and sometimes that's all he needs to calm himself. This is not one of those times.

He peeks out from the side of the stage to see her seated at a table by herself, up front, stage right, just the way she'd threatened. Her hair shines like a halo when the lights hit it, and she's wearing the dress he'd picked out, sheer layers of brown and tan and cream like her usual robes but really, really not. He needs to get ahold of himself. And not the way he normally would when his feelings about her come up. There's no time for that, and anyway, his dick might be the only part of him not covered in glitter at the moment and he'd like to keep it that way.

She must sense the sudden spike in his anxiety, because she sends him a warm pulse of calm encouragement and he lets it flood his senses, breathing deep the way he would before jumping into battle. This is just another type of fight, he tells himself, and he's always good in a fight.

The pirate has finished—he's getting felt up by the crowd as the song Anakin chose starts playing. It has the same throbbing bassline as the previous songs, but the melody is a lot more upbeat.

Anakin takes a quick run at the stage and does a backflip that lands him next to the pole. He shrugs off the cloak immediately, and then the sash, which he flicks at the crowd like a whip before letting it flutter to the floor. He spins—spinning has usually worked out well for him—and catches Obi-Wan's surprised gaze. He gives her rueful half-grin that sets off a wave of sighs in the crowd—he can't hear them over the music, but it feels like the Force is sighing too. He's not sure what to make of that, so he shuts it out and focuses on Obi-Wan, like she's the only one there. 

With a nonchalant twirl, he sheds the overtunic, and then teases off the glove on his left hand. His hips are doing something that is probably not all that attractive, nor very dianoga-like, but he thinks he's on the beat, at least. The undertunic is next, and then he grabs the pole and flips. He doesn't think it'd be an exaggeration to say that the crowd goes wild, but once again, he tunes them out and searches for Obi-Wan amongst them as he manages to twist himself right side up again while still spinning around the pole. This part is much easier than he expected, especially with the Force to guide him and the ever-present desire to impress Obi-Wan and hold her attention exclusively.

He does a few more maneuvers around the pole, earning gasps and applause, before he flips back to his feet and tears the trousers away in one quick move, like ripping off a bandage. The crowd shrieks but he ignores it, and focuses on Obi-Wan, making his way down the stage and then jumping onto her table. He lands on his knees before her and takes a very cheeky sip of her drink.

He's expecting the raised eyebrow and the impish smile, but there's a flicker of heat in her eyes and in the Force that's new, and for a moment he wonders if he's imagining it, because it's something he's been fantasizing about for years but never expected to actually happen.

She reaches out a hand. He takes it and presses a kiss to the fluttering pulse on the inside of her wrist, earning another gasp from the audience, and more importantly, and surprisingly, from her. She cups his cheek and tugs him closer, and he goes easily, breathing in the scent of her usual shampoo as she whispers, "I've made contact with the agent. Is there somewhere we can talk?"

"There are private rooms in the back," he replies. "If you're willing to pay for one."

"Of course," she replies, and he has to bite back his own gasp as her fingers trail across his abdomen before she inserts a credit chip into one of the readers on his g-string. "As soon as the song is over."

"Yes, Master," he replies automatically, and then bites his lip at the flare of desire sparking between them.

He flips back onto the stage and bows as the song ends. He suffers the groping hands of the crowd for a moment or two before pushing his way through them to meet Obi-Wan at the door of private room number 4. 

The Trandoshan guard looks him over appraisingly and then tips him a wink before turning to Obi-Wan and saying, "You get thirty minutes for a hundred credits." Obi-Wan easily hands over twice that and the Trandoshan looks reluctantly impressed. "Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Obi-Wan opens her mouth to say something Anakin is sure will be cutting, so he says, "Thanks," and pushes her into the room before she can.

Once the door swishes shut, he gives her a questioning look, and she draws a datastick out of the folds of her gown. "We'll have to wait till we're back at the hotel to read it, but hopefully it contains something useful, and this trip won't have been in vain."

"It got you a little rest and relaxation," he says, "so I think it's worth it even if that's full of nothing but old copies of Swoop Racer Weekly."

"Yes, I suppose I _have_ seen some lovely sights." She touches his bare hip with her fingertips, almost as if she can't help herself, and then pulls back as if burned. Though the touch was featherlight, he can still feel it, like it's branded on his skin. Wants to feel it again. He draws her hand back down to sit fully on his hip and she thumbs the strap of the g-string, sending a jolt of heat through him. He can't hide his body's response and so he decides to brazen it out and meet her gaze squarely.

Her eyes are dark and heavy-lidded, and even in the low light of the room, he can see a flush climbing her cheeks, spreading across the bared skin of her chest. 

"I knew that gown would suit you," he says. "It's not that you're not beautiful all the time, but you always say proper presentation is important."

"So I do," she says, her other hand coming up to cup his cheek again. This time she draws him down into a tentative kiss and he goes willingly. Eagerly. Her lips are soft and she tastes of the Corellian whiskey she'd been drinking during the show.

He pulls back a little, still unable to believe this is actually happening. "Are you sure?" he asks, thinking of all the times he'd been told to let go of his attachments and not dwell on his feelings. Of being treated like a boy after he'd become a man. "I was expecting a lecture."

"I could give you one, if you wanted," she replies. "I have one pertinent to the situation, all about masters not getting involved with their padawans and the ruination to which it leads. Though I suppose that one would be directed at me." Her lips twist ruefully. "I've certainly recited it to myself a lot recently, but it doesn't seem to help." She shrugs a shoulder. "And this seems more fun." She trails a finger down his chest and circles one peaked nipple playfully.

"It really does," he agrees fervently before kissing her again. She presses him back against the door, the hand on his hip slipping around to squeeze his ass and the one on his chest moving up to tangle in his hair. His entire body goes up in flames. He's dreamt of this, but none of those fantasies were as real as this is, the heat of her tongue in his mouth, the soft press of her body against his, the scent of her soap and shampoo in every breath he takes. 

This time she pulls back, panting raggedly, and he can see a smear of the pink lipstick he's wearing on her lips. Her heaving chest is now also sparkling with glitter. He draws a finger along her collarbone and then down between her breasts. "It's like sand," he says with a lopsided smile. "It gets everywhere."

"Mm, yes," she says, "but I find I don't mind very much. Do you?"

"No," he replies. "I guess I don't."

"Good," she says and kisses him again, harder this time, wet and messy and hungry in a way he never expected her to be with him. The Force shimmers with heat between them, pleasure and desire thrumming back and forth and consuming them both as she explores his body with her hands, each fleeting touch leaving searing heat in its wake—throat, chest, shoulder, hip. He's overwhelmed by the taste and feel of her, the heat and need reflecting back at him when he'd always thought it went one-way only.

Even half-mad with kisses, he doesn't want to miss out on the opportunity to touch her. He slides the straps of her dress down, baring her breasts, which are full and tipped with rosy nipples. He thumbs one, watching her face to see how she responds. Her lips part on a gasp and he smiles and does it again. He slips his left hand under the flimsy layers of her skirt, skimming the warm skin of her thigh—bare except for the synthleather holster holding her lightsaber (a quick detour to her other leg reveals his lightsaber strapped there and his cock aches with need at the discovery). He slips his fingers under the elastic of her underwear, skimming along the folds of her cunt before dipping into the slick heat of it. Her hips jerk forward, pressing her more firmly into his hand and he grins against her mouth.

"You know, this could get me fired," he says, amusement coloring his voice though he's trying to sound serious. "We're not supposed to have sex with the patrons."

She laughs with delight. "I'll take care of you if that happens," she replies. "I'm sure you've got a wide variety of skills to fall back on."

That sets off a warm feeling in his chest that might be even better than sex. "I learned from the best." He has no trouble being sincere when he says it.

She hums, pleased, into his kiss. 

He swings them around so her back is against the door now, and drags his lips down the line of her throat before latching onto one peaked nipple. He enjoys the way her cunt tightens around his fingers, so he does it again, thumb finding her clit so he can coordinate his touches, wringing a low moan from her lips. 

Her short nails dig into his shoulder as he thrusts his fingers inside her, thumb still rubbing her clit. He captures her nipple again, swirling his tongue around it in an all-out assault on her senses, silently willing her to come.

When she does, her inner walls clench hard around his fingers and her body quivers in his arms. The Force chimes brightly, letting him feel some measure of the pleasure she's feeling, and knowing he's pleased her sets his whole body alight with arousal.

He's always excelled at tactical thinking, and this is the best victory he's ever won.

When he withdraws his hand from underneath her skirt, he presses it to his lips, hungry for the taste and smell of her. She peels herself out of her underwear, gathers her skirt, and wraps her legs around him. He holds her easily, giving himself over to her hands as she tugs the g-string down so she can guide his cock inside the slick heat of her cunt.

He slides inside her like he's coming home, two halves of a whole that should never have been split. This is moving faster than he expected, but neither of them have ever been one to go slow. 

"Slow can be good," she murmurs against his cheek, "and we'll have time for that on the trip back to Coruscant, but for now, I agree." She digs her heels into the backs of his thighs. "Faster is better."

He laughs breathlessly, barely able to get the words out. "Yes, Master."

She meets him thrust for thrust, as perfectly in sync with this as they are on the battlefield. She drags her fingers through his hair and digs her nails into his biceps and licks at bead of sweat trickling down his throat, every touch another spark to his nerves. When she comes this time, her satisfaction bursting in the Force like a supernova, he follows in an explosion of white light and white heat, ecstasy firing in his veins. 

For a brief time that feels like an eternity, the only thing Anakin can hear is the sound of their ragged breathing and the rush of blood in his ears. It finally subsides, and they separate, Obi-Wan lowering her legs and resting her weight on the door. His skin prickles as he cools off and cleans up, and he already feels the ache of loneliness, even though Obi-Wan is still right there in front of him. With his luck, she'll tell him it's a one-time thing, madness brought on by glitter and whiskey. 

He can feel himself getting angry and defensive and for once he'd like to stop it, but he can't. He folds his arms across his chest and opens his mouth to say something. He doesn't even know what, but he's going to lash out. It's what he does.

Obi-Wan looks up at him then, her face soft with vulnerability and something he can't—won't—name, because if he's wrong, it might break him. Still, it makes him shut his mouth.

"We'll have to be careful," she says. "The Council already thinks we're too close."

"You want to—We're going to—This wasn't a one-time thing?" His voice cracks and he can't even be embarrassed about it. This is too important.

"Anakin." She cups his cheek. "Despite the trappings, you are not a sex worker and I am not a customer. I'm not going to fuck and run." She holds his gaze and lets him see her sincerity in the Force and in her expression. 

"I love you," he blurts. "I didn't mean to. I know I'm not supposed to, but I do."

"I know," she says, going up on her toes to kiss him gently. "You're not alone. We're in this together."

He'd hoped she'd say it back, but he supposes that's as good as he's going to get right now. They have time. He just needs to make sure they survive long enough to end the war.

"I guess we'd better get that datastick back to the Temple." He looks down at himself and then over at her. She's put herself neatly back into her dress, but her skin is still spangled with glitter. The sight makes him smile, and sends a shock of possessive heat through him. "I'll get my stuff and meet you back at the spaceport."

"Yes," she says. "We have a long ride back to Coruscant." She trails a finger down the center of his chest and gives him a wicked smile. "I'm sure we'll find some way to pass the time."

She saunters out of the room before he can respond. He takes a moment to adjust himself before following. The Trandoshan bouncer gives him an impressed nod when he does, and Anakin can't help grinning smugly in response.

*

_Epilogue_

"So while I was stuck here taking an advanced economics exam, you were off lying on the beach and going to clubs?" Ahsoka says, hand on hip, when they get back to the Temple. She kicks the pile of laundry Anakin left outside the fresher in their shared quarters, and a small cloud of glitter erupts from it. "I understand why you're still shedding glitter, Master—that stuff gets everywhere—but why is Master Kenobi—?"

Maybe if he were a better Jedi, Anakin could stop the blush heating his cheeks, but he can't. 

Ahsoka's eyes widen and she holds up a hand. "Never mind. I don't need to know!" She's halfway out the door when she mutters, "Finally!" and then looks back over her shoulder and gives him a small smile. "I'm glad." The door slides shut behind her, as if in punctuation.

Anakin glances over at Obi-Wan with a sly grin and she says, "I am, too."

end

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: [**This**](http://modischste.tumblr.com/post/166472333337/leanne-marshall-at-new-york-fashion-week-fall-2015) is the dress I pictured Obi-Wan wearing, though [**this one**](http://fyeahgowns.tumblr.com/post/169141350154/zac-posen-pre-fall-2018) was also in the running.


End file.
